Reading Denise Newman is like imbibing a divine elixir, making one realize how thirsty one has been all this time. Perhaps even dead. Her work is intimate, erotic, pantheistic, metaphysical, then sprinkled with the odd grace and beauty of American colloquialisms. Full of a kind of delightful unrest where "sky tosses disposition about," and "earth is a gentle panting thing to eat," one wants to live forever in her human forest, asking with her, "Couldn't we go on climbing into infinity like lambs quaintly passing time?"